


it's always have and never hold (you've begun to feel like home)

by moonginn



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, i hate this. i hate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonginn/pseuds/moonginn
Summary: Adam doesn't quite know how it all came to be.
Relationships: Adam Kenyon/Fergus Williams
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	it's always have and never hold (you've begun to feel like home)

He doesn’t quite know how it all came to be.

One moment, he’s hugging Fergus goodbye - Ferg’s leaving to his mum’s for the weekend, she’s ill, it’s just a head cold, he says - and the next he’s biting his fingernails raw because - and this may be a reach, he hopes it is, for his sake - he is, perhaps, in love with his junior minister.

Fergus came round to Adam’s for a moment, just to tell him where he was and not to bother him and that he was, admittedly, pretty worried. They chat, Fergus says he’s got to go home to gather his assorted shit; Fergus hugs Adam at the door and Adam closes the door behind him. It’s all simple, really.

Except when it’s been nearly two days, and that’s probably the longest he’s spent without Fergus in months. It’s not that he’s spiraling. He’s not. Although the fact that he realises that Fergus occupies a relatively large chunk of his thoughts doesn’t necessarily help him.

So, he sits on his stiff leather sofa that he, in all honesty, does hate, and turns on the news. He lasts about 5 minutes. Maybe he should call Fergus - a thought he’s had around eight times this wretched day. He rang Fergus on Friday afternoon to make sure he arrived safely and that his mum was doing alright; he rang him on Saturday during lunch because he apparently needs to know how Fergus is doing at all times; he rang him this morning to check if he was still coming back to London that afternoon (a “Possibly. Mum’s not doing too well and I might need to stay longer.” that really kicked his nerves in), and his bastard excuse for a brain is contemplating ringing him a second time to ask how he’s doing again. How his mum’s doing, actually, because Fergus’s wellbeing shouldn’t concern him on a personal level to the extent it does. 

He doesn’t end up ringing Fergus.

Maybe it’s cowardice, maybe it’s the slight glimmer of common sense shining through after an entire bottle of port wine. Why the bottle? He doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s warm where Fergus isn’t, it’s there where Fergus is at his mum’s, it hurts like he does when it goes down his throat. How’s he such a mess after two fucking days?

He’s being overdramatic.

Adam goes to do some laundry, because he remembers that, before Fergus, when he desperately needed things to think about, performing household duties was somewhat therapeutic. At least it put his mind on the dirty laundry instead of some ginger twat. 

It’s all going fine, it’s all going so, so fine until he sees a shirt Ferg left a couple of days ago and, suddenly, he gravely needs to throw up. It _smells_ like him. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, honestly, because all of a sudden he knows what Fergus smells like and he misses him and that’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it. They’re not just colleagues, they’re mates, but even that isn’t good enough of an excuse as to why it feels like there’s barbed wire cutting into his chest. It isn’t that he misses him that much, it’s the fact he misses him. So, he might be having a bit of a crisis over whatever the hell that means at approximately 11 in the evening in the middle of his bathroom. 

Because yes, he always had an inkling that after so many years in each other’s constant proximity, he might end up doing something he shouldn’t. And perhaps this is it.

He goes to sleep and hopes he forgets it in the morning.

“Did you see the news last night?”

It’s a miserable attempt to keep the conversation going as long as possible, because after last night’s repression - turned - almost -realisation - turned - repression again, he’s a bit fragile. And he’s found that the remedy for this is to talk to Fergus - it always is. Soon enough, though, Fergus responds - says he didn’t have the time.

“Look, Adam, mate, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. See you today? I think,” and then there’s a beep, he’s hung up, and Adam feels something sink in his chest.

He goes to bed early.

Fergus comes back later that day. Adam learns that fact the next day, at work, where Fergus is being suspiciously pissy yet exceptionally quiet. Although, of course, quiet for Fergus just means the constant monologue to Adam of every bloody thought that goes through his mind is decreased by maybe 20%. Doesn’t mean that Adam doesn’t notice it.

Everything’s going relatively normally with Fergus’ latest rant on his mother until, like a shot in his fucking neck, he says with complete composure: “-and, you know, my mum’s asking when we’ll ‘get our act together’ and start dating which is, first of all, completely ridiculous, and, second of all, none of her bloody business.” When Adam doesn’t respond, doesn’t nod his head or hum in agreement like he’s been doing the past 12 minutes, Fergus looks over with his eyebrows furrowed.

“Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“You alright there?”

“Lovely.”

Adam’s head is spinning. This is what his mind was inching towards over the weekend, he realises. It’s this, it always has been. Fergus has been right there and he never realised. Fuck, he’s stupid. He sucks in a breath and prompts Fergus to continue. He gives Adam a strange look, nearly like he’s grown two heads, but shrugs it off and starts talking about how his asswipe of a cat, Geraldine, scratched his arm until it bled while he was asleep. Adam snorts and tells him not to call the senile cat an asswipe, but it’s futile.

He goes to the bathroom and thinks he might start crying.

He doesn’t cry unless he’s listening to Bruce Springsteen, so this is undoubtedly quite a big problem. He doesn’t end up crying, because this is work and he’s not going to cry over fancying a boy when he’s in his damned 30’s. He shouldn’t be crying at all in his 30’s, really, but especially not over the fact he fancies a fucking ginger.

The last thing Adam’s going to do is tell Fergus. And the last thing he needs right now is Fergus, cornering him in his own flat, and kissing him like his life depends on it.

There’s two things that he could do: yell at him, have an outburst, kick Fergus out of his flat and never let him back in; he could also, preferably, just let it happen. He opts for the second route.

This, unfortunately, carries on into an amalgamation of multiple instances of fumbling making out in either of their flats and, regrettably and on both of their parts, the intensification of aforementioned feelings. Adam doesn’t know how long he can keep on doing this without fucking it all up. 

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to go long, because Fergus fucks it up for him. Technically.

They’re doing some late night policy writing bullshit on the floor of Adam’s flat; Fergus is looking at him and not the damned policies Adam is trying to dissect. Adam, for both of their sake, pretends not to notice, until Fergus puts his overly-warm hand on the side of Adam’s slowly-heating cheek and pulls him into a kiss. It’s nothing like how they usually do it: it’s slow and soft and it feels like Fergus thinks it’s full of meaning, which it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t have come to this. It shouldn’t have come anywhere; it shouldn’t have happened, actually, because Fergus shouldn’t have kissed him. 

This, though, is what Adam originally wanted, isn’t it? Adam _likes_ Fergus, but for some unspoken reason making out in cars and flats and the odd cupboard isn’t enough for him. Rather, Adam is dying to love Fergus. He wants to go on the stupid fucking dates and the stupid fucking holidays together and stupidly fucking kiss him like this, mellow and kind, but he knows that all this is against his better judgement.

So, instead, he lurches backwards and lets bitter close-offedness consume him: it’s all he knows.

“What the fuck was that?”

Fergus looks deeply confused, then, irrevocably, his face turns sour in hurt and regret.  
“What the fuck have the past four weeks been, then?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d know, you started this clusterfuck.”

“You sound like a petulant child, Adam.”

“You kissed me like you fancied me.” Adam’s voice is straining. He doesn’t know if it’s in vexation or dejection.

“Fuck you. Truly.” 

Adam stalls for a moment and lets out a breath, “I’m tired,” his voice is desperate and worn, “I’m tired, I don’t know what we’re doing anymore and, fuck, I’m so, so tired, so if you could tell me what’s happening or, at the very least, fuck off, I’d appreciate it.”

Fergus does the thing he thinks is right: he fucks off. It’s with Adam’s best interests in mind.

This is, in hindsight, one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made. He’s never been one to talk about his emotions, but this time it really couldn’t have been more necessary.

Three days go by of stilted conversation and unpleasant shuffling around each other. Adam sulks in his bed most of the evening when he’d usually be staying up writing policies with Ferg. He has a fumbling exchange with him when he’d usually be chatting shit about anyone and anything with him.

Adam just wants Fergus to come back.

He’s sitting on his couch, texting his sister, and decides to get a cup of coffee, because he’s thinking about Fergus and thinking and thinking and it won’t bloody well stop, so he might as well. It doesn’t help though, not really, because now he’s more awake, so he’ll think about him more. And because the sixth cup of coffee today he’s near clutching in his hand isn’t going to taste like Fergus’ lips, and even they taste of coffee anyway. 

Instead of trying to solve things on his own, Adam finds some more port wine, listens to a shitload of Simon and Garfunkel, and abruptly starts dialling Fergus. It’s a mistake, he knows it is, but that’s never stopped him before.

“Adam, it’s midnight.”

“I know.” Fergus pauses.

“Just wanted to make sure you were aware,” he hesitates, “you alright?”

“Look, Ferg, I’m really sorry about this.”

“About what?”

“All of it. And,” He sucks in a breath and musters up the remnants of the courage the wine gave him, “I f- I fancy you. Hey, I’m sorry-” Fergus hangs up.

Adam knows he’s fucked up now.

20 minutes go by with radio silence and Adam sobers immediately. He’s spiraling, just a little, because there’s a good chance he could quite possibly lose his job over this, not to mention his best and one of his only friends.

It’s only 20 minutes, though, because then there’s a knock at his door - Adam half expects it to be some sort of serial murderer or something, because who the hell would be at his door at near one in the morning, but serial murderers don’t knock. Fergus does.

He’s scared to open it, hesitates for a second and examines the chipped white paint on the relatively new wooden door. Another knock forces him to come to his senses and then Fergus is opening the door with his spare key - because, fuck, he’s got a spare key to Adam’s flat, that’s something couples do - and he looks as if he’s about to whack Adam upside the head. 

Instead, Fergus, in his seemingly deranged state of being, hugs Adam. It’s not a kiss, it’s not a love confession, but maybe it’s something more. 

“Do you - would you want to talk? About it?”

Adam shakes his head for a moment, sighs, then concedes with a simple and defeated, “Yes.”

Fergus awkwardly walks through Adam’s flat into the lounge, awkwardly sits down on Adam’s uncomfortable black couch, awkwardly attempts to put his hand on Adam’s knee in a failed bid to comfort him while Adam shifts his knee to get Fergus’ hand off it.

“I’m sorry. I just - I want to preface it all with that. I didn’t mean for this to happen, and I swear I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t have that port wine, I promise. Fuck, I hate how that sounds. I’m not a drunkard. I don’t want to give you more reason to fire me.” Adam gives a weak laugh; he can’t bear to look at Fergus right now.

Fergus, meanwhile, sighs heavily.

Adam, despite his best efforts, continues: “I do like you. I know we’re mates, I already have you as a mate, but my absolute twat of a brain thinks of you as more. When I get overwhelmed with the whole debacle that is this job, I go to you. You’ve - you’ve begun to feel somewhat like home. Your flat-” Adam doesn’t get farther than that. He’s teetering on the edge of waxing poetic, something he cannot do under any circumstances, and it’s unnerving. He and Fergus are suddenly too close, entirely too close. He gets up, paces a bit.

“Look, Ferg, the kissing is nice and all, but I don’t know if I can handle more. I have no strings attached because people wouldn’t want the strings attached. People like me because they have an idea of me in their thick heads that I’m better than I am, and when they get to know me, they don’t like what they learn. It’s better to keep up the idea than let people know me.”

“But I do know you. Adam, I’ve known you since uni, what the fuck are you on about? What- what are you thinking? I already have strings attached. I thought- logically, I thought this was the next step. It is, I’ve got to admit, a bit funny. I mean, are you really that oblivious?

Adam stops in his tracks. Is he jumping to conclusions?

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a fucking idiot, is what it’s supposed to mean.” Fergus is getting up too, and then he’s pulling Adam into him, one hand on Adam’s waist and the other on his cheek.

“You are too, for your fucking information.”

Fergus is kissing him, then, but Adam stills.

Fergus stops immediately, concern evident in his voice when he asks Adam, soft as ever, “Are you okay?”

Adam sighs deeply and glances upwards helplessly, “Why are you doing this, Ferg? One moment you’re saying that your mum thinking we’re dating is the most ridiculous idea you’ve ever come across and the next you’re trying to kiss me and I just don’t understand it. You’ve got to help me.”

Fergus gives him an incredulous look, “Adam, mate, I think when the guy I’ve kind of been in love with for ages now rings me up and tells me he fancies me I’m more than a little justified in wanting to kiss him.”

Adam’s mouth gapes open.

“Ages?” Adam’s edging on anger now, “How long is ages?”

“I don’t know, a couple of years?”

He’s past the point of anger, “And you never thought to fucking clue me in?”

Fergus looks like a kicked puppy when he murmurs out, “I tried to. Just- touches and- and squash games and thinly veiled flirting, but, fuck me, Adam, I never in a million years had thought that you’d reciprocate. It was out of the question. Why did you not tell me?”

“I only found out myself around a few weeks ago.”

Fergus pinches the crease of his brow and looks as if he wants to scream, “Are you saying you’ve only thought of me in- in that way for a week?”

“Oh, no, I mean, I know I’m not as much of a bitch about it as you are when it comes to emotions, but I didn’t think I was this bloody oblivious,” Adam goes quiet. Finally.

Fergus sighs, again. Adam wonders if he strangles him he’ll finally shut the hell up.

“Adam, you’re an emotionally constipated shithead.”

“Can I be your emotionally constipated shithead, though? Fuck, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever said.”

“You’re insufferable.”


End file.
